...then breed race horses dammit!

hitch your wagon to a dream and paint the night sky in the boldest colours you know. so that instead of becoming carbon copies of one another, we can celebrate our individual personalities and tastes and differences. and we can all be our own "special" people... "perfect" in our own defined spaces.

fulfilling a parent's dream is far too heavy a burden for any kid to bear. that dream being the by product of years of failures and wrong choices and unhappy coincidences.

so let every parent wave that magic wand of good parenting and declare "my child - go dream and do what you wish. i am here to morally support you, and watch through my proud tears, as your dreams (and not mine) come true".

support outside of the moral kind, of course is redundant. because following one's dream inherently implies one has a universe of talent to boot, and in today's world, where talent is immediately recognised and heralded as this week's great find of the year, why degrade this discussion by bringing up the question of "m-o-n-e-y"?!

except that the rat race is all-pervasive. if it isn't competition for the first place in the race, or in class, or at work, and many times, it has little or nothing to do with the money.

that's when we're competing (perhaps not always knowingly) for contentment.

as long as we live in civilized society, there will always be neighbours and friends. with similar or completely different lives. but for as long as they belong to the same species, we are going to find ourselves invariably comparing - report cards, salaries, gardens, wives/husbands. and while the process of comparing may be quite different from the gory battlefield of competition, the final outcome (of both) is always an unnecessarily long post-mortem of actions and reactions. could've - would've - should've.

comparing is never innocuous. even sharing information can lead to mental cuts and bruises.

so even when the young painter-genius follows his heart's greatest desire (and hence, rescued from the evil incantations of his success-obssessed parents), years and years later, who is to say that he will not be possessed by the same demon-spirit of competition, when a more contemporary school produces a much younger rival? or when his own beautiful wife looks for comfort outside of their marriage? or simply when the rut of his existence (as successful and accomplished as it was) drives him to the point of madness? who is to say which of these might happen? and who is to say, how far he might survive any of it?

are we in a world where we can afford to sit back and let our lives move in neutral? if everything that means anything to us, is fluid - whether it is a dream come true career, or the love of one's life - so much so that even as we hold on to the tangible signs of contentment in our hands, we hold on just a little tighter, just to be sure that they don't wriggle away.

we are competing to get to the top. and if we care to settle for less than that, we're competing just to stay afloat.

this is the rat race, we've been born in, and we will die in - is there really a way out?

mandatory leave 2007

it's by far the grandest concept ever. how can anything be grander?

two weeks.

fourteen days.

freedom from the bad coffee, the over-sanitised environment that houses rodents, the flickering antiquated computer screens, the growing angst arising from the muck of school-girl politics,

far, far, away from all of the above.

so why is it so difficult to digest the fact that i might not want to escape from the general 5 sq mile area of the workplace? or my parents? why does a vacation have to mean escape in the literal, physical sense?


of course, if i had the chance/choice, i'd like to have gone that way too. it is an entirely different matter that my dearest friends were unable to accomodate me for even 2 of the 14 days. but then, that's an entirely separate rant.


for the sake of this post, let us assume i am over this minor discomfort. and that reoccurring stabbing pain in the stomach, at having wasted 14 good days of my youth.

i found "sex and the city".

for 300 bucks, it's far beyond a steal. but the real price i'm paying is through the gross obsessing that i am indulging in. not in the pervy sense. but in the sense of constantly associating with the stories, the characters, the situations and the reactions to situations. minus the sex.

it's actually not that awesome. 4 stereotypical women - the horny slut looking for true love, the princess looking for her way back into the fairy-tale, the cynical intelligent cute but not pretty lawyer bitch looking for someone take her caustic shit and still stand by her, the neurotic, chain smoking, self-obsessed writer looking for the wrong man.

and of course, the eternally unattainable men, who turn into emotional puppies, the instant the compass needle of interest points away from them.

the close scrutiny of relationships, the endless autopsy of mistakes made, the mindnumbing self-indulgence - all of this would make a normally mature individual laugh at how TV show creators will stoop to any level to dress up and sell the age old tale of a single woman in her mid 30's.

i, on the other hand, am consistently intrigued by how real these women are, even if they are caricatures of real people.

minus the promiscuity, isn't it a wonderful life to aspire for? of independence, and complete responsibility for your own doings. with no one but your friends to hold your hair back as you throw up on your latest outfit, and BIG mistake.

romancing the idea of romance

it's as simple as yellow roses. or as expensive as a diamonds. but even in this age of acute cynicism, romance is all it takes to melt one's insides and make the geese bump all over.

to me, it's the clearest sign that all is not lost for humankind.

sure, the end might still be nigh, the stars will collide and the heavens will explode, and the earth will crack open to gobble us up. and in all likelihood, we'll be on our ownsome on the lonesome on that fateful night. i imagine a "mars attacks" type armageddon, tacky and ironically funny.

but i imagine that i'll have visions of yellow roses, kissed with the evening moist. i'll imagine the soft, sweet, wet petals, like cold skin right after a shower. the freshness is intoxicating, the subtle fragrance is just one of the flavours in the air.

who gives a shit about humankind?

i have yellow roses to hold on to.

are you really really really sure??

how are some people always so convinced??

not just convinced that they are right about facts. even opinions. worst of all, their emotions/feelings.

i can barely decide if i like a movie or a book. how can i possibly take a stand on politics, or fashion??

how do you know that he's THE one for you, for the rest of your life? how can you be so sure that this is the job that you were meant to be in? how in crap's name do you decide that you are truly happy?

it has always appeared to me that such people (and a significant portion of all the folks i know!) are the definitive "clueless" lot.

they have no idea that they can be much happier.

and that they are settling for something so substandard, and kidding themselves into thinking that "this" is as good as it gets!

alternately, the likes of me accept that this is a significantly crappy life, hence giving one something to aspire for. it's the latter part that is harder to ingrain into one's cynical, tired self.

still, it's a helluva lot better than the rampant self-delusion. and oh the smugness that seeps through the self-delusion.

puke!

home. again.

it's not often that i have these epiphanous moments. but then, there are some recurring ones.

as i looked into the rainy chennai night, through the window of my car, right around gemini flyover, i had this warm and fuzzy feeling inside me, which promptly turned into a gut-sucking, heart leaping to the throat type of a realisation - 'this is home, and i love it.'

of course, i remain a probashi bong and a 100% fraud tam, and hence 'na ghar ka, na ghat ka', hence rootless and yet belonging to two completely different and completely alike cities/cultures/peoples. which i play to my convenience, depending on whom i am trying to impress/piss off.

belonging is so far fetched. what earthly benefits could it possibly have?

if it is only to get that warm, fuzzy feeling on nights like this, i'm glad i am. home.

notes on turning 26

• i had my quarter life crisis in the last week of my 26th year. where i was physically repulsed by what i had become. or what i saw of myself. when i felt like i was in a movie that was dragging for that annoying last hour. when i was wallowing in completely unfounded misery. or i was just so miserable, that i couldn't put my finger on the reason why. it has to happen, when these milestones swish past you, reminding you of the expiry date on your dreams and promises you made to yourself. or, as in my case, reminding me that i haven't even dreamt yet, haven't even taken the risk of making a promise to myself.

• the irony of this year is that i have only just begun to welcome vanity as an ally. probably 15 years too late? after a lifetime of condemning it as the dullest to entertain. having made fun(privately and publicly) of all who take self-indulgence a little too far, while all the time, falling deeper and deeper in love with this "notion" of self that i had imagined.

• burnt bridges - i have run so far from so many. there's one that i cried back to life. and i am glad that i did. but the others remain as heaps of ash around me, begging to be resurrected. but i lack the courage, and blame it on a lack of interest. all of it making little difference, as i try to ignore the phone that never rings. instead i pick on idle gossip and whip up silly arguments with third or fourth persons, and feel vindicated and victorious afterwards.

• of course, once the hangover wears out, one begins to attempt to straighten one's head and life out. and to convince oneself, that there is enough time. to make something of oneself. and that is not the un-coolest thing to do. i sometimes wonder if the irreverence that i try to present to the world is sometimes perceived as some manner of "flakiness". i don't want to be a flake. not at 26. frankly, all i feel like doing right now, is to scream from a rooftop ... "oh dear lord, what i have i done?!". yes, that would be the drama queen speaking, but then...

copyright infringements?

they stole my words from inside my mind.
or when the book was left open,
the ink still drying.

it wasn't perfect, but it was mine.
but now my verse is dressed in someone else's fashion.
cropped here, and polished there.

i could cry my heart out, if it didn't seem so silly.
it's happened so many times now,
you'd think i'd be over it by now.

it just sounds so much better in someone else's voice.
as if the feelings i had, are reborn in another life.
a much stronger, more intelligible voice, in a celebrity life.

the others sing along, mouthing the words with intent and faith,
they don't know, but their minds were read too.
i know mine was.

i just wish it had been me first.

silence breaks

silences dance on the waves in front of and in between us.
vanity wraps around her like an expensive perfume.
she flicks the cigarette ash with nonchalance and disdain the same move.
her skin, dark silk glowing in the moonlight.

her skirt flaps as the evening breeze sweeps through. her hair is ruffled now, causing a crinkle of discontent on her forehead. the crinkle vanishes quickly, as if she's just decided that this is her moment, and no silly breeze is going to ruin that.

she begins nodding, as if to a song. she closes her eyes, slipping into a trance. is that a smile? or just a contented curve in the corner of her mouth.

the look of emptiness on her face is supposed to convince me that she is at peace, with herself and the world. but there's something heavy in the air, and it's coming from within us.

her fingers are playing the tune on an imaginary piano. is it the tune of some happy song and time that she remembers now? did it not turn out the way it should have? - because she slowly draws her fingers back into a reluctant fist. she takes a deep breath, and now i am aware that she will begin to speak. she always finds something sharp and smart to say. but at this strange moment, i don't think she will. she exhales, stretching her legs out, her toes just barely touching the water. she looks carefully at the toe-nail she broke earlier, during our grossly misguided trek to the waterside.

she catches my eye, and we exchange an "oh, i so know what you're gonna ask me now...!" glance. she looks away, into the miles and miles of darkness hanging over the sea.

i hear a humming now, and it takes me a few seconds to realise that she's about to speak. finally.

"so... have you ever been in love?"

so it wasn't delhi..

gurgaon is a nightmare.

the dust and the sepia haze perpetually suspended over this desert of clusters of ugly tiffin box buildings, the highways that are the pride and joy of speed demons like my brother, the ridiculously pseudo-anglical names of unattractive apartment complexes like 'Olive Heights' and 'Oakwood Avenue', monstrous malls with brands and advertisements splashed obnoxiously across the facade, the lack of any respectable form of public transport!!! -- a bloody nightmare!

further cementing the fact that a place is only as beautiful as the people are... and people are only as beautiful as you know them to be.

but if people are what memories are about, and memories are a manufactured fragment of one's imagination, which in turn, plays to one's desired concept of how life should be, one is in a bit of a pickle, no?

and there are times, when memories are empty of feeling. where people are props, in a landscape that you imagine comfort in. a blurred vision of what might have happened. those supposed good times. friends are people, after all.

i went looking for delhi, and i found gurgaon. true, i didn't spend enough time looking, and surely didn't look so hard. and as time goes by, one needs to strain and look harder. and find that they are not the same.

people change places.
places change people.

one can face the truth that people and places change. and that memories that one holds on to, will most certainly fade, while a wistful longing permeates and impersonates real memories..

how does any of that matter? if a random image from yesterday can make me smile, so be it! even if two minutes too much of it might reveal that it never happened yesterday, or any other day... big fucking shit! i can live with a little self-delusion!

gulzar (after TDS)

the poetry in a tear, the sweetness of solitude...
it can't be coincidence that i found myself here tonight.
it's a moment in song that i've been thrust into.
it's a silence in darkness, a love seeking a rhyme,
a feeling of half-belonging, of half-fitting in...

the words bring no new meaning,
the music is all too familiar,
but the will to break out, and the strength to believe i can
are enough to create a new person in the song
who can be it. be me. be them.

so i step into the dream,
with the soundtrack of a sad broken heart
seeking the light of tomorrow
(while i know neither)
as sobriety wears in and the dark sky bursts into red.

and the world is so beautiful,
with nothing to fear, or dread,
because as i feel you here tonight,
i know you are with me in the morning.
and after.

tell me what you think...

no really, i want to know.

do you not like the clothes i wear? or the hours that i spend talking about things that are completely irrelevant to your existence? or when i inspire you with my vision of what YOU should be, as i slip out the backdoor by 8, as you slip into your 3rd continuous late night.

are my mannerisms annoying you? surely, you can put that in words. i have no physical deformities that may embarass you, so why can't we look into each other's eyes and talk?

it cannot be that you think that i haven't attained the level of 'cool' that you think you are at. you're kidding me. don't you think that's terribly shallow? and in direct contradiction with your definition of 'cool'.

and there you go, cringing at my clear rationalisations of your trivial opinions. does it trouble you that i am right? or does it kill you that you are not?

the options are few, in this multiple-choice analysis of myself.

but tell me what you think... you know me so well.

to those days in delhi...

i think of delhi as the city of my growing up.
where i found that i wasn't the person that i thought i was.
where i found the person that i would be for those few years, someone i was happy to be.

in hindsight atleast.

my city of discovery, to drive a cliche up the wall.

perhaps it was because of the short duration, or the unwillingness to accept (or let go), that i could never call it home.

but it's the one place i had found my space in. not the kind of space that you could run away to and lock yourself in. but the kind of space that you had to define for yourself, keeping in mind that there would come a time, when this precious space would stifle as well. so it was actually all about finding the right people who would rescue your from your space.. from yourself.

so it seems to have little to do with geographical locations, and more to do with these right people. but to carry on for argument's sake...

it was essentially the convenient kind of reality, where temporary escape is possible. atleast not unforgivable.

besides, who's to forgive or not?

honestly, it was just a life riddled with immaturities - ironic that i'd call it my growing up.

i suppose i'd call it a journey of learning, where mistakes were inexpensive, and frequent. confidence in attitude was all that it took to survive, and even declare oneself victorious. where victory itself was often brittle, and always meaningless.

i didn't soak in the history and culture of the city. i didn't enjoy the distance and the grime. i didn't learn about the people and the cosmopolitan ways. the capital of the country didn't inspire patriotism.

the city itself had little to do with my growing up.

maybe it was the cosmic alignment, where the planets and the soul sisters came together in the exact location, at the exact time in our lives, and in history itself... a karmic favour granted by the universe.

or just a truly random event.

in any case, there we were all together, and in our togetherness, i found delhi.
or that seemingly fictitious place where i found myself. or that self that i miss so much.

going back to delhi tomorrow, i don't expect to have memories jump out of the ruins and dust, and slap me into nostalgia. maybe a little. but i expect to have a screaming frenzy of breaking free, and doing my thing, my way.

if that was my youth, and the feeling just described here is of the rush of young blood through my veins, then lord! i feel old!

masks

it's a face without colour.

the reds and blues have disguised it well. the shimmer from last night's party is still on.

but you can see the real colour is a shade of nothing. a transluscent paleness . not even white.

this paleness is not from fear, and it's not numbness. it's not the tired wearing away of the day.

it's the in-between time. it's the precious moments of nothingness.

nothing to say. nothing to convince. nothing to represent.

no one to prove right or wrong.

minutes before the dance begins again.

a twitch of restlessness, of the excitement, of what lies ahead.

the first notes trickle in, of the seranades and the obituaries.

the act begins soon, and the disguises often slip away.

but the paleness must never show.

never.

closer i am to fine..

this is about self-indulgence. of course it is.
why else would i take the trouble, if it didn't do something major for my ego?

it's exhibitionism, playing to your voyeurism.

it's my need to sound out, and yours to judge.

these words won't change either.

this isn't honesty, because it's soaked in vanity. but the little shreds of me are real.

otherwise hidden little shreds.

i could go back into the painting i came from,
where the colours have melted into each other
and appear as infinite tiny grains on the canvas

i could be a grain. again.

but the more i see the end of my sanity,
the closer i am to fine?

on a clear day, i can see a very long way..

waiting for my real life to begin. finally a song that woke me up. what's really special about it, is precisely how simple it is. featured in some pivotal episode of scrubs. just discovered that the dude responsible for this is an unfortunate vestige of the very unfortunate men at work. but that shall not deter me (much) from falling in love with this song, every time i listen to it.

i'm not a fan of hope. or of corny motivational numbers. but there's something in the honesty of this song, you can feel his despair, and yet he's checking his machine. he knows that call's sure to come in.

there are days when i find such optimism nauseating, sure.

but today, this works.

any minute now, my ship is coming in
i'll keep checking the horizon
i'll stand on the bow, feel the waves come crashing
come crashing down down down, on me
and you say, be still my love
open up your heart
let the light shine in
but don't you understand i already have a plan
i'm waiting for my real life to begin
when i awoke today, suddenly nothing happened
but in my dreams, i slew the dragon
and down this beaten path, and up this cobbled lane
i'm walking in my old footsteps, once again
and you say, just be here now
forget about the past, your mask is wearing thin
let me throw one more dice
i know that i can win
i'm waiting for my real life to begin
any minute now, my ship is coming in
i’ll keep checking the horizon
and i'll check my machine, there's sure to be that call
it's gonna happen soon, soon, soon
it's just that times are lean
and you say, be still my love
open up your heart, let the light shine in
don't you understand i already have a plan
i'm waiting for my real life to begin

at the railway station

mothers grow up, because children leave.
lovers cry, because forever isn't.
some are waiting, and some've given up.
some indifferent, and some who still try.
vacation lights up a pair of eyes,
a vacant look in another, headed for the unknown.

the stench - it's not the filth.
it's the mishmash of emotions that is unloaded here.
emotions that haven't been worded.
imagine all those consciences, those inner voices
screaming within, begging to be let out.

the lump in the throat thickens
as the train fades into the distance
leaving only the regret that the right things weren't said.
that tomorrow may never come.
to say them.

a wedding invitation

she picks up the invitation card lying on the dinner table. takes it out of the envelope. handmade paper, light saffron in colour, with the names of the bride and groom delicately etched in brush strokes of magenta lined with silver. names of members of both families , fill one side of the card entirely. the parents (with their designations) humbly beseech her presence at this auspicious occasion. the venue is a new 4-star hotel in the suburbs. the menu vegetarian.

she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and allows her mind to drift, as her fingers play with the thin golden thread that bordered the card.

she's known them for years, though not intimately. they are friends of the family. she knows she has to oblige her mother and turn up at the happy event. she doesn't mind these things as much nowadays.

there was a time when it annoyed her a great deal. the same conversations with the same people. the same goddamn questions. why can't everybody just get over it?!

she imagines those goose bumps on her arm, the way she used to get, many years ago, whenever she'd get agitated. she used to be fiesty. they called her a rebel-kid right from her early teens. as she grew older, her rebellions found direction and purpose. she couldn't stand being cornered or caged. wild and untamed, that's how she saw herself. she refused to let anyone control her.

that was till she met him. and he changed her life. no, that's not right. he didn't change her. she allowed change to happen. she welcomed it. she came to realise that her independence of so many years meant nothing if she had no one to share her life with. that depending and to be depended upon were good things - to breathe every waking breath for someone else, was to really live, and not just exist. they weren't lovers like that, but if love could've manifested itself in their circumstances, that's exactly how it would've been.

she sighs, and looks out the window. as if she can see those days clearly in the wind and moonlight.

for the good times, and the better times, yours forever, xoxoxo.

she doesn't blame him. she knows that he tried harder than she ever did, to make things work.

we're really not making sense any more.. i don't think i can do this any more..

she can't remember who ended it. who ran away and hid. who couldn't face a world littered with memories of their love. it's all such a blur, really.

she turns to the envelope in her other hand. where her name is written neatly in ink. the '& family' struck off as aesthetically possible. she laughs to herself, takes another look at the card, and leaves it where she found it.

of kryptonite, CSB's and illusions..

there are those who think they need to be correct all the time.

there are those who believe they have to have the last word.

there are those who are starved of affection, and must be loved by all.

and then there are those think they can do it all.

it is one of those tragic pathological cases. the host turns against the parasite. as it is accustomed to. except that the battle results in dangerously heavy losses for the host. but the host is accustomed to fight. and it will, irregardless of ability or will. it just has to.

it must be an ego trip. disguised behind a stupid grin of goodwill.

i do it the best, and i do it the fastest. ergo, let me position my neck beneath the axe. oh don't bother, i'll jerk upwards, and save you the effort.

there's a piercing scream inside my head that says 'STOP!'.
what comes out is 'Uh, yeah, am on it..'

but what is peculiar to my case is that i nod along only because that entails lesser pontification on issues i couldn't give a rat's ass about. and worse, with people that make me cringe.

still, i believe i have arrived at the infamous breaking point.

maybe this is the first sign of mutating into the Corporate Slime-Ball (CSB). wherein you can cook up some cock-and-bull story to justify any random standpoint, only to ensure that you can go home on time.

another few hundred farmyard animal stories later, you're so good at it, that they call you a complete genius (to your face and behind your back, a lazy MF who'll say anything to not work.) . And you wisely use the time thus saved, in networking with the powers that be.

is this disillusionment?

what was the illusion i walked into?

do good things and good things will happen.
be sincere, and hard work will pay off.
do that which benefits the most people.. greater good for the greater number etc.

yes, i am freed from this illusion.

come to think of it, i have never had any reason to believe in this illusion either. except for maybe some fairy tales and other kiddie stories. grown up stories often had the hope of this illusion. but if it did break, it was so delicately sentimentalised that you'd still believe.

out of this illusion, and into another? that there is perhaps a world beyond this one?
one desperately needs illusions. we'll learn to get over them eventually. but till that time arrives, there has to be another lie that one can cling to.

i need a new illusion.

really, this isn't about you.

independence day. hah.

even you're a bloody slave.
slave to this version of yourself that you seem so comfortable with.

you appear as the lord and master.
you and your prosperous fiefdom, the serfs with dollar dreams in their eyes.

stop, before your head explodes with pride. or atleast before i put a bullet through it.
there's nothing to celebrate. your hollow two-bit existence is known for what it's worth.

your secrets, like your promises, mean nothing. cheap entertainment, that's all.
your damning roots, your uneducated conversations, the filth between your teeth.

how blind do you think we are? or are you so far gone in your quest for the holy grail, that public opinion is irrelevant? as long as the public is beneath your stature/standing.

is it your intelligence that you've presumed makes you worthy of the pedestal you've hoisted yourself on? or is it your way with words that does the trick?

the condescending smile, the furrow on your brow, the ill-timed reactions, the aggressive cat and the kiss-ass dog that you are. do you see yourself the way we do? ever?

the truly agonising part is that, to the unaffected onlooker, you'd seem like the young and brilliant mind, trapped in an unattractive but tolerable human shell; challenged, but bravely overcoming a life-long stutter.

i bet you read self-help books to sleep every night.
i bet you've never known the joy of being truly respected.
i bet your friends are good looking geeks with a sharp and sophisticated sense of humour(and without a hyena-esque laughter).

i bet you have no friends.

it's not a lifetime of misery that i wish upon you. there are several ruined lifetimes you need to atone for.

there really is nothing i'd want to wish upon you. Except, oblivion.

i met leonard cohen tonight.

i met leonard cohen tonight.
he was weeping his hallelujah
and i, unfeeling, let his words wash over me.
in his tears, i saw suzanne
and the angel with the broken harp.
i could travel with him and travel blind,
i had gone the distance in my mind anyway.
the notes and the words filled the air
around us - as if they'd be the last sounds we'd ever hear.
even the sisters shed a tear, in shame or love, i didn't know.
now i could smell the dirt on the skin
of heroes of the wars lying by the wayside, hope still not lost.
embarassed, he showed me janis' smile
as she turned her back on the crowd
and him, his heart breaking like mine.

some pretend to be brave,
and some others wounded.
he and i, we are sometimes alike.
words protect us from the eyes
that pry, accuse and judge.
they already have, and they always would've.
we spin the magic of metaphors,
and hide behind melodies
unheard in these parts, where harsh words
are all that remain.
we feel victorious, even as every muscle, every limb
quietly surrenders.

i left him with his tears, and carried his soul into my sleep.
the words are mine now. softly, the tears too.

of superstitions and upside down desktops..

there's something to be said about the week that starts with your desktop screen turning upside down.
even for those with a less superstitious mind than mine.

ominous. that's one of my favourite words. i can use it in practically every sentence, considering everthing, when worked backwards can be a sign. i wouldn't blame the next mishap in my life on the sign. it just invites the smell of the possibility of an unfavourable occurrence , and hence one wisely prepares for the worst. simply based on the sign.

so hours later, when everything falls apart at work, i think to myself 'ah well! my desktop did that little jig, didn't it..' not that it makes the problems any less significant. but the disappointment is almost explained. justified, even.

it's not really superstition then, is it?

dig a little deeper, and it might surface that it's a really funny mechanism that the mind automatically resorts to. sheer childish blame-shifting meets the traditionally ingrained need to turn fatalistic on an otherwise sunny monday morning.

the necessary and uncomfortable beginning...

it's a journey, really. for half-thought thinkers like us. we do not have very wise things to say, and the half-thoughts remain thus only because the level of interest is hard to sustain. that or something better comes up (usually on tv). so to disclose some of these half-thoughts in such a forum, would be the furthest such thoughts have ever travelled. and perhaps, the only glaring result of such an experiment would be only to ratify their status.. as half-thoughts.

it's hard to bare the mind and soul, without getting into specifics. but what are the relevant specifics anyway? what matters is in the moment. in this moment, it matters to me that i'm feeling too lazy to change the cd that's playing. one of my favourite pastimes (ie, when i am not feeling completely sloth-like) is to update my ipod. and that could be to go scrounging for new music(ie, music that i don't already have), or rummage through existing cd collection to dig up that one cd that i'd assumed my brother had whacked off me.

it's fleetwood mac tonight.

****snip-snip-ed on 15th Aug****

fleetwood mac, anyhow, doesn't get associated with any special memories/thoughts/half-thoughts. they've never been an ever-green favourite with me. but these words..

if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
the landslide will bring it down

.. these would rate high among the most haunting words ever written. it's practically eerie. and the voice and the music just make it eerie-er!

closer home of course, is...

i've been afraid of changing
cause i've built my life around you

... it's unfortunate when words like these make sense. the potential danger of settling. because uprooting what one is settled into, invites a world of change within oneself. it's almost the fear of this potential danger that gives me the courage to procrastinate the impending decisions of life. right now might be completely miserable, but atleast i have a hold on things. but if i rock the boat a little with the sliver of a hope that things will get better, things might just get worse. so why rock it? just live another moment, another hour, another day...